


A Different Kind of Magic

by Canttouchthis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Inspired by Music, Music, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis
Summary: He faintly recalls the first time he watched her in first year. Her shoulders were tense, jaw clamped, fingers squeezing the bow. Even then, something in the way she brushed the horsehair against the strings, so effortlessly, mesmerized him.Draco Malfoy watched Hermione Granger practice her Viola for six years. Returning to Hogwarts after the war, her music offers them both a place of freedom and sanctuary.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 40
Kudos: 103
Collections: The Dramione Collection





	A Different Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeilahMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilahMoon/gifts).



> A HUGE thank you to [ThusAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThusAtlas/pseuds/ThusAtlas) for her amazing beta work on this.
> 
> This story was inspired by the song "Dans Les Vagues Noires Des Premiers Oceans" in _Rubod & Stroudinsky Vol. 1_. I put together a small playlist that truly helps bring the story to life if interested: [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FaqLsNtKChOoGagnpoULC?si=e4984a9fccc842c6).
> 
> This fic is a gift to LeilahMoon for putting up with me and inspiring me to write an eighth year fic.

He faintly recalls the first time he watched her in first year. Her shoulders were tense, jaw clamped, fingers squeezing the bow. Even then, something in the way she brushed the horsehair against the strings, so effortlessly, mesmerized him.

It had been an accident, that first time he’d come across her. He saw her bushy hair and was preparing a ridicule, when he heard her.

Draco had never cared for music, preferring to spend time on his broomstick rather than attend a concert with his mother. But the sounds Hermione made, as she stumbled through Bach’s Cello Suite, had chilled him.

She still sits in a hidden alcove within a scarcely used hallway across from the Charms corridor. Only now, her fingers dangle elegantly along the neck of the Viola, her posture relaxed, her bow floating across the instrument. 

“The Viola Sonata” resonates peacefully across the empty space, to where Draco sits upon a windowsill, eyes closed, letting the complex melody wash over him. 

It’s comfortable to sit, listen and on occasion, watch her play. In Hogwarts, in a world where he is no longer confident of his place, Draco finds relief in the subtle notes she plays, the way her eyes shut and lips curl, as though she too is lost in the music.

“Draco?” Her voice causes him to jump, his eyes opening wide as he turns to see her face pensive, her soft gaze watching him. She grasps the neck of her viola and the bow in one hand, dangling the instrument lazily along her side. 

He’s been expecting this, but he’s still nervous; his heart beats rapidly against his chest. Since Sixth Year, when she caught him humming the Mozart piece she had been practicing, he’s been waiting. He’s grateful she’s held off until now, that she didn’t confront him when he would have been forced to scoff at her, to deny his actions to save face.

“Hermione,” he says, trying out her first name, finding the syllables roll easily off his tongue. 

They stand in silence, each waiting for the other to say something. His gaze shifts to her instrument, to her calloused fingers that grip the wood. It’s a wondrous thing, he thinks, how she can take simple elements and make something remarkable.

He wonders what she thinks of him - the boy who bullied her for six years and watched as she was tortured on his drawing room floor. Her face shows no resentment, her tone bears no malice, as though she’s unbothered by his past, by the chasm that’s always existed between them.

“If you’re going to eavesdrop on my practices, you can sit with me if you like,” she offers with a slight smile, tilting her head towards the alcove. 

He furrows his brow, watching her carefully, as though her countenance would reveal her true intent. But she holds his gaze, the fingers of her free hand tapping against the side of her thigh.

“What if I just want to sit out here?” he asks, his tone light with a slight quirk of his lip. 

“That’s up to you.” She shrugs and turns, glancing over her shoulder before returning to the alcove.

He wants to follow her, to watch her up close. He imagines the way her fingers vibrato along the instrument, how she moves along with the melody.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he stands at the threshold of the alcove as she replaces her viola upon her shoulder. Her eyes light up when she sees him, but she quickly diverts her gaze, focusing on the music sitting upon the transfigured stand.

He leans against the wall, entranced. 

Her fingers move quickly, seamlessly across the strings, bending and straightening. Her wrist arcs softly, guiding her bow evenly, pulsing to urge the sounds at just the right intensity.

Her entire being moves, tensing and relaxing, swaying with the song. Even her hair, reaching to the center of her back, rises and falls with the melody. She pours herself into the music, each note a reflection of her.

She’s soft in a way that’s unique to her; he notices it in classes now, in the gentle way she raises her hand, the poetry in her words. She’s melodic in the tender way she speaks to others, in the way she delicately turns the pages of old tomes.

When she stops playing, the silence feels daunting, as though the absence of her music has removed something tangible from the corridor.

“How long have you been watching me?” she asks, taking a seat along a bench. Her voice is curious, her demeanour calm, and she makes no move to retrieve her wand.

He once considered her dull and clumsy. He saw her hair as something to scoff at.

He sees now the elegance is in her movements, the way she gently places the viola back in its case, the care she takes to unwind the bow. She clasps her hands together, her legs crossed, her eyes searching.

He finally relents and takes a seat on the adjacent bench. 

“Since first year,” he admits, struggling not to hide from her gaze. 

Her eyes go momentarily wide. “That’s a long time.”

He’s not sure what to say, how to explain that listening to her — watching her — had become a reprieve. That when the world had become too much, her music was the only thing that soothed him.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. He doesn’t specify what precisely he’s apologizing for, and isn’t entirely certain herself. But he feels a weight pulsing against his chest as he watches her consider him, her teeth gently biting her bottom lip.

“What for?” She’s frowning slightly, one hand clutches at her robes.

“I— “ he starts and shuts his mouth as he struggles to find the right words to explain himself. He wants to apologize for watching her, but also for his cruelty over the years, for watching her suffer and remaining silent. 

The silence is thick between them; the space, ordinarily filled with music, sits empty but for their breaths.

“It’s just strange, is it not?” she suggests easily. She’s smiling once more, her face reassuring.

He wonders why she’s being so kind to him. He’s imagined so many variations of this conversation, where she would call him a creep and a voyeur. Where she would threaten him.

But he should’ve known better; her voice reminds him of the way she plays Bach — purposefully gentle.

He swallows, hesitantly wetting his lips. “I’ve always enjoyed hearing you play.” He’s quiet; he feels vulnerable in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar.

She nods her head. She seems unsurprised, as though she expected the answer, and he can’t help but consider if she too had played this exchange over in her mind.

She stands and wandlessly summons her case into her hand. “You’re welcome to watch me play anytime, Draco.”

He remains seated, listening to her footsteps dim, the last vestiges of her presence fading like a dream.

* * *

It’s strange at first, to sit in the alcove mere feet from her while she plays. But it becomes normal after a couple of months, to the point where the sound of his name from her throat no longer sends his heart racing.

They speak sometimes, their conversation light, related to the songs she is practicing or the weather. There are so many words unsaid between them; apologies and explanations he owes her. 

But she has yet to ask for them.

“Draco,” she starts abruptly one afternoon, her viola still clenched under her chin. She’s frowning, watching her fingers carefully. “Did you hear that? It sounded off, right?” 

He’d found the refrain perfect, each note bleeding seamlessly into the next. He’s not entirely sure how to answer the question. “It sounded good to me.”

Hermione scrunches her nose. “Do you have any musical training?”

He shakes his head. “None.”

She looks at him strangely, and he feels oddly vulnerable. “You never learned an instrument? Not even the recorder?”

“No — it was never an option for me,” he explains. “Music was considered — trivial. I was encouraged to pursue other hobbies.”

She drops the viola, placing it on the bench carefully before sitting beside him. 

His pulse races at her closeness, the way her gaze locks onto his, full of curiosity. His own breath hitches, his eyes glance down at their hands, inches from one another.

“Is that why you watch me? Do you want to learn?” she questions. 

It’s not why, but he wonders if he should say it is. “I’m not sure,” he admits instead.

“What do you mean?”

He’s drawn here, to her music - to  _ her. _ When it started, it was a comfort, like a warm meal or the sound of a crackling fire. But it evolved into something more. 

He recalls watching her storm out of the Yule Ball and retreat to this alcove, how he so desperately wanted to tell her that her music meant so much more than a dance. His eyes had glazed over at the sounds she played that night, at the way she transformed her anger into a haunting melody.

He lets his pinky graze hers, his eyes lifting from the bench to meet hers. “You play beautifully, Hermione,” he tells her.

She doesn’t move her hand, instead keeps her gaze on him, though her breaths quicken. “I just don’t understand,” she whispers. And he wonders once more how much time she’s spent considering this, trying to reconcile the boy who bullied her with the one who would sit and listen to her for hours.

“Listening to you play, it was the one time I felt — free,” he tries to explain.

“What about now?” she asks. “With the war over, with your father…” she trails off, but he understands what she’s trying to say. How does he feel now that the expectations on him have lessened?

He looks down at their hands. 

She watches him wide-eyed, their faces so close he can feel her breath against his cheek.

A thousand confessions sit at the tip of his tongue; he wants to tell her he’s captivated by her every movement; that even in his darkest moments, her music shows him there is light.

But he’s fairly certain she’s not looking for an admission.

He leans towards her and brushes his lips against hers. The kiss is chaste, short; she doesn’t move, and he eventually pulls back. Her eyes are closed, her forehead wrinkled.

“With the war over, with everything different,” he starts once more, “it’s a relief to hear you play. That in spite of the world seemingly turned upside down, there is one thing that’s remained.”

Her eyes reopen and her face softens. She’s smiling in a way he’s unfamiliar with, in a way that reaches her eyes. 

She presses her hand over his and tangles their fingers together.

* * *

A month later, she asks him if he wants to learn to play.

He’s considered it; all the times he’s watched her, wondering what it would be like to create something so — miraculous.

“I’m not sure,” he says, sinking into the bench. He feels simultaneously vulnerable and curious, in wonder at the prospect of playing something yet terrified of failure.

She sidles up to him, tugging at his arm, urging him up. She has a familiar glint in her eyes, one he recognizes to mean she won’t take no for an answer. 

She shows him the basics, explaining the various parts of the instrument and hand placement. She gently places the viola under his chin, guides his left hand to the neck and his fingers over the strings. 

He tries to focus on her words but the feel of her fingertips brushing his own, of her breath whispering against his skin, draws him to her. He watches her focus on his every angle, the pressure of his hand along the bow, and he struggles to look away.

He’s tense and she laughs, pressing into his shoulders, telling him to relax. She stands beside him, guiding his right hand with the bow across the string.

The sounds he makes are horrendous, the melody simple, the notes offkey. But still, he feels his eyes water and tears gently stream down his cheeks. His fingers ache from just a few notes; indents sit on his fingertips, evidence of his attempts. Something shifts within him as he plays, something he struggles to conceive.

“Not bad,” she says. She’s beaming at him as she takes back the viola.

He quickly wipes his eyes, trying to save face.

“It’s miraculous, isn’t it?” she says softly. “You just made something from nothing.” She verbalizes his feelings precisely, understanding instinctively what he is still trying to grasp.

He cuts the space between them and treads his fingertips along her cheek. “Is that how you feel — every time you play?” he whispers to her.

She shivers, blinking, her breaths quicken. Her head tilts up to catch his gaze and her irises darken. She places the viola down with care and draws a hand over his own, clutching it to her.

“It’s,” she starts, her voice breathy. “Before I knew there was magic, I thought that music was magic. Being able to play—” she shuts her eyes momentarily “—to  _ make _ that magic, has always felt extraordinary.”

He wonders if that’s what draws him to her; that magic she speaks of. They stand still, inches apart, until Hermione pushes onto her toes and presses her lips to his.

It’s their first kiss since his admission a month ago, but this time she knots her fingers in his hair, angles her face to deepen the kiss. Her nose brushes against his, her tongue slides out to graze his bottom lip.

He can hear the faint sounds of a viola concerto pulse between them.

He wraps his hands around her waist, gently pressing into her sides, pulling her closer. She tastes like licorice when his tongue flits against hers, and he imagines her chewing a sugar quill in the library, her fingers tapping a melody against a table. 

She makes soft sounds into his mouth, her hands moving slowly from his hair to his sides. Her calloused fingers slide through his robes, gripping his button-up shirt, tugging him to her.

He can hardly breath, so enraptured by her tongue against his, the way she presses against him. Their every touch is like a minor chord, their lips dance in a soft sonata, together they play a symphony.

They separate, their foreheads pressing together, their arms woven around each other. Draco shuts his eyes, his breaths heavy, the scent of rosin lingers between them.

“I’d like you to teach me,” he says roughly, opening his eyes to find hers wide.

“I — teach you what?” she asks, frazzled. Her cheeks turn pink, her grip on his shirt tightens.

“Music,” he whispers, letting his lips linger against his ear. “I want to learn about your world.”

She exhales and smiles. “I’d love to show it to you.”

_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate any and all comments/reviews/gifs/emotions!


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